Memories of My Saba

by Anna Shneiderman

October 27, 1996

Above the
living room couch in my father's apartment hangs a painting of a couple engaged
in a passionate, loving embrace. Beautifully imprecise brush strokes portray the
love between these two characters in dark, muted browns and grays. The features
on their faces are primeval, almost Neanderthal. The lines forming the bodies of
the man and woman merge sensuously, making the distinction between them
ambiguous. As a young child, I would gaze at the painting, trying to work out if
it represented one or two figures. This melting of faces and the dark background
create a feeling of ancestral pre-history emanating from the scene. The figures
look like they have just been created from the dust of chaos beyond the outline
of their bodies. I always imagined them as Adam and Eve; the first lovers.

This familiar piece of art used to hang in my grandparents apartment in
New York City. In their living room cluttered with books and papers, the amorous
painting was unusual. In a house ruled by intellect, the ancient lovers seemed
to remind its inhabitants of the power of emotions.

Seeing the painting
evokes one of my strongest childhood memories: After driving with my parents and
sister for five hours, we finally arrive at my grandparents Chelsea apartment
building in New York City. We pile into an elevator which whisks us to the
fifteenth floor, where we knock on the door of apartment 15D. After a few
seconds, the door opens to a warm gushing of kisses and Yiddish from my Sabta.
After the customary, Annale, youve grown so much! I am ushered into the living
room where my Saba is writing intently. He pinches my cheek with an affectionate
grip just short of painful, and barks in an accent rich with experience, Who are
you?

This was not a confused, curious inquiry from a diseased mind, but a
tough existential challenge which required a thoughtful response. My
grandfathers question might seem a strange and intimidating one to ask a
five-year-old, but I was not surprised at all. In fact, all along the New Jersey
turnpike, I had been wrestling with this very question. I knew from experience
that when we reached our destination I would have to define and defend my
existence in this world. I never gave him the same answer twice. Each time I saw
my Saba, my childs brain concocted a different response to his fundamental and
unanswerable question, so that over the years I stockpiled a multitude of ways
of thinking about myself. From a very early age, this mentor of mine challenged
me to think in a sophisticated, analytical way.

My grandfather taught me
an appreciation for the past and a passion for the present. He instilled in me
an understanding of my familys roots in eastern Europe and a reminder of my
Jewish identity. Every time I saw my Saba, he told me a different story about
some stage of his incredibly full life, which included a childhood in provincial
Poland, a career as a young reporter in Paris, the loss of his family to the
Nazis, and a successful, journalistic tenure in New York. He covered such events
as the Spanish Civil War, the opening of the United Nations and the conception
of the state of Israel. Fluent in eight languages, he wrote for papers in almost
as many, but his favorite language was Yiddish, his mother tongue. His powerful
passion for his work constantly amazed me. After hours of silent and intense
thought, I saw fires ignite in his eyes when an idea for a new story finally
crystallized. Following this moment of revelation, his dedication to his work
bordered on obsession, sometimes preventing him from appreciating the joy of a
family occasion. My Saba looked to the past with reverence, to the present with
passion, but to the future with cynicism.

During the last few years of
his life, my grandfathers aging body found it harder to do the work his fully
functional mind so loved. As his ability to write declined, he lost his way of
connecting to the past and the present, and was left with only his pessimism
toward the future. Prompted by a question from my sister, however, our Saba
replied that the soul does not exist on its own, but is created by the memories
others hold of a person after his death. My grandfather wanted his loved ones to
create his soul by remembering him long after his death. My grandfathers soul
lives on in me through his repeated challenge, who are you? which continues to
echo in my head.

When my grandfather died, my grandmother closed up their
New York apartment and scattered their possessions among the family. Happily,
the lovers ended up in my living room. The painting brings me back to those
telling moments in the apartment when my Saba challenged my intellect with his
question. The presence of the lovers behind him added a caring element to his
inquiry. The sensuous image reminds me of an emotional side of my grandfather
that was seldom seen in his busy, intellectual life. I see my grandparents in
the wise faces of the lovers. They were once lovers, as were their parents, and
their parents, all the way back to Adam and Eve.

This document was produced June 13, 1998. It is maintained by Cynthia
Sorrell, Assistant Manager of Collections for UMD Libraries. Direct all comments
and suggestions concerning this page to
csorrell@umd.edu